


Make It Smoke

by gala_apples



Category: Bandom, My Chemical Romance
Genre: Alcohol, BDSM, Bad BDSM Etiquette, Break Up, Crush, M/M, Parallel Universes, Scratching, Touring
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-24
Updated: 2013-01-24
Packaged: 2017-11-26 19:13:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,632
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/653510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gala_apples/pseuds/gala_apples
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's winter 2002, and Frank Iero has been happily living with his dom for over a year. Then, on the same day that Zeke betrays their relationship and his trust, a band stops at Zeke's shop. Frank hitches a ride and does his best to not fall in love with the lead singer. It's harder than it sounds.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Make It Smoke

**Author's Note:**

> Written for bandom reverse big bang, inspired by [this art](http://carmesim.livejournal.com/156598.html#comments).

Right now Frank’s only responsibility is to go under. He’s not going under. He’s nowhere near going under. If anything, his mind is racing.

He gets what Zeke is trying to do. In different circumstances Frank would be thrilled to be doing this scene. Between the restraints and the long wait, it could be perfect. Frank is used to perfect scenes. They’ve had a little over two years to refine how they mould to each other’s expectations; perfect is the norm. It’s the particulars that make this bad. It’s frustrating, and more than a little odd. His dom is normally excellent with the finer details.

One problem is how cold the restroom is. The shop has a top notch air filtration system to combat Zeke’s allergies, just like their home. The problem with both is that they circulate the warm air out. Frank understands the need for it. Even if he wasn’t the sub, he’d submit to Zeke’s need for an expensive air system. It’s simple to make Frank not cold in a filtered room. It’s not simple to protect Zeke from pollutants in a normal, warm room. It’s just, it can be bad enough on his knees in a sweater. On linoleum in only his underwear Frank’s freezing.

Another issue is the hygiene of being nearly naked in a public restroom. Frank knows how often the shop is cleaned. Nine times out of ten he’s the one with closing chores like mopping and window washing as Zeke counts the register and refrigerates the sandwiches. The floor is _not_ washed enough for Frank to be okay with sitting on it without a protective layer.

The most prevalent problem is that Zeke’s gas and sandwich shop doesn’t exactly draw in the best clients. For every one innocent family on a road trip to see the Atlanta Falcons there are five or six super sketchy truckers. Almost nude and cuffed to the handicapped railing in the larger of the two stalls, Frank _might_ have the opportunity to scar a football obsessed child for life. It’s nearly certain he’ll be stared at by some trucker high on crystal meth. 

Frank loves the idea of being naked and forced to wait for Zeke to want to use him. Frank has no interest in being an open mouth for some creeper in a mesh baseball cap with scars on his face from where he scratched off the spiders. The longer he sits the more detailed the confrontation becomes. It’s more than just not going under, the idea is actually making him upset. In the last two years he’s had to call the cops a few times. Tweakers don’t take no well, even ‘no, we’re sold out of bacon sandwiches, sorry’. He can’t imagine being refused a blowjob will go over better. 

Finally he can’t stand it anymore. Frank clears his throat and calls out “monkey!” 

Zeke doesn’t come. Frank frowns, then shrugs it off. There must be a customer. The number of people that can’t wait twenty minutes to be in the city for a snack or gas is surprisingly high. He waits long past the time it would take Zeke to complete a transaction before calling out a second time, louder. He still doesn’t come.

Frank knows Zeke can hear him. They’ve done scenes in the shop before; Zeke getting off by himself in the bathroom with Frank manning the counter, forced to only imagine it. If Frank can hear Zeke’s groan as he plays with his balls, Zeke can certainly hear his clear shouting. There’s only one conclusion Frank can make. Zeke’s not in the restroom unlocking him because he’s choosing not to.

“Monkey, motherfucker! I’m not kidding!”

It’s not fair to say he should have seen this coming. Zeke’s brought up Gorean a few times, but Frank’s always been able to talk sense into him. Total power exchange is not something he’s looking for. What they have comes close, but the few differences are the important ones. At least they are to Frank, and he _thought_ Zeke understood that.

Most situations boil down to two end options; doing something about it yourself, or waiting for someone else to do it. It’s become abundantly clear someone else has no interest in letting him out, so Frank has to try letting himself free. Try being the operative word. He doesn’t have much optimism about his efforts actually working. Zeke has impeccable attention to detail. He wouldn’t allow for something as scene ruining as escapable predicament bondage. 

His pessimism is accurate. The cuffs are too tight for his hands to slip out of, of course, that being the entire point of bondage cuffs. Throwing himself forward doesn’t result in anything except wrenched shoulders. The safety railing doesn’t as much as shift. Frank defaults to shouting monkey over and over again. Less as a safeword and more as an expression of betrayed rage. Zeke might think it’s okay to cross the thin line between keeping Frank and owning him, but to Frank it’s spitting on what they’ve had for the last twenty six months. When he finally does let him go, Frank’s going to punch him in the face and dump his ass.

If Frank’s not careful his anger is going to turn into panic. Shouting is keeping him at the precipice, so he shuts up and methodically takes in his surroundings. Mindfulness meditation doesn’t really work for him. He he tried it for a while, but it’s too similar and different from subspace to suit him. Still, acknowledging your senses without trying to change anything fits the current situation.

There isn’t much variety in a restroom stall. There are only five basic surfaces to look at. He’s got the floor, white but nastily tacky. The ceiling is white with small grey flecks. The toilet is white, thankfully without stains. There’s his own body, which, thanks to Zeke’s enjoyment of mirrors he’s seen often enough. The most interesting are the walls which are heavily marked up red metal paint. Half the graffiti is written in Sharpie, the other half scratched in. _Kellie’s a skank_ and its followup _says who, bitch_ can only be read so many times. And yet Frank reads it again. He’s run out of other options.

Frank’s been in the stall for a while when he hears the door on the other side of the smaller stall open. He has no way of telling the time, aside from counting to sixty ten times then starting again, which he’s not quite desperate enough to do yet. Hazarding a guess though, he’s been handcuffed to the handicapped railing maybe two hours. 

About to start shouting at Zeke for leaving him so long, he notices the shoes most definitely aren’t his dom’s -his _ex-_ dom’s- although they are male sized sneakers. There is only one set of shoes, but the guy is definitely talking. Fantastic. Nothing is a surer sign of sanity than someone who talks to himself about gumballs. Dude could win a sanity award.

Frank decides to stay silent. Alerting the lunatic of the presence of a nearly naked defenseless man probably won’t work out too well for him. Maybe if he waits a half hour he will get that innocent vacationing family to scar when he calls out for help.

The man enters the single stall and for a moment Frank thinks he’s safe. Then the guy grunts in disgust and backs out of the stall like something is going to attack him from the toilet bowl. Frank has all of three seconds to pray the guy has decided it’ll be better to hold it until he gets into the city before the unlocked door crashes open. Frank scrambles to the side as much as the cuffs allow so he’s not the doorstop. He’s not much for impact play in general, and getting smacked with a door is even less appealing than a paddle.

The man stares at him. There’s nothing Frank can do but stare back. He doesn’t want to startle him, and depending on how crazy he is, even nodding hello could come as a shock. He looks pretty crazy; his hair is long and wild and his shirt is inside out.

“Uh. Gimme five seconds,” he says before he turns and runs out. If Frank wasn’t trying to avoid being confrontational, if he wasn’t already speaking to an empty room, he’d point out that right now it’s not exactly his place to dictate others movements.

Frank’s expecting Zeke to come check when the restroom door opens again a minute or two later. If he’s got a shred of decency he’d be coming in to ask if he’s okay, and maybe undo the goddamn cuffs if he think he’s proved whatever point he was trying to make. But Frank’s becoming more disillusioned by the second, so hell, maybe Zeke’s coming in to mock him. Except it’s not Zeke, it’s a herd of people. Four, by the count of shoes. When one pushes the door open, lighter this time so it doesn’t crash into anything, Frank doesn’t recognise any of them. They’re strangers, not a group of acquaintances Zeke decided to ‘grant permission’ to use him. Which doesn’t mean he’s not about to get assaulted, just that he’s not being betrayed by yet more friends.

“Holy shit! You weren’t drunk!”

“I told you!” The man that came in alone the first time turns to a guy with glasses and horribly ratty poorly bleached hair. “You’re still not getting reception?”

Ratsnest Hair stares blankly at him. “If I could call the police I would Gee.”

“Uh, you don’t have to call the cops,” Frank replies, somewhat reluctantly. BDSM gone wrong is always the legal fault of the dom, but as quickly as Frank has soured on their relationship he still doesn’t want Zeke arrested for unlawful confinement or some shit.

“When someone kidnaps you to cut off your limbs or demand you rub on lotion you normally try to call the cops.”

Frank rolls his eyes at the group. “He’s not a serial killer, he’s just my asshole dom. _Ex_ dom.”

The one with the big hair spazzes out. “Uh. I. Um. We don’t really know protocol here? Or at least I don’t, but I think I’m speaking for everyone. Do you want us to just leave you alone?”

“No! I want you to get the fucking key so I can get fucking free so I can _break up with his ass_!” he shouts the last and it feels good.

“I’ll get it.”

From the way Ratsnest leaves Frank’s line of vision a second after the thickest goes to get the key, Frank’s pretty sure he’s acting like a human doorstop. Gee and Big Hair don’t move, apparently preferring to stare at him. Frank would give a sarcastic handwave, but his hands aren’t currently available.

“-about I punch you? And then I _keep_ punching you, until you gimme the key?" wafts in from the store, each word progressively louder. For all that Zeke is confident and powerful, he’s physically not much bigger than Frank. A threat of a brawl he can’t talk his way out of might be enough to make him hand over the key.

Ratsnest speaks from the door, smile evident in his voice. “Otter’s good at persuasion.”

Otter comes back in, key in hand. He holds it out like Frank’s just going to take it from him. Frank raises his eyebrows as sarcastically as he can, though he doesn’t say anything. To piss them off enough that they leave when he’s this close to being free would be a kick in the nuts.

“Unlock him, fuck.”

“I’m not gay!”

Gee scowls. “His cock isn’t even out! And you’d be touching his arms and back.” Otter doesn’t move. “Give it, dumbass.” He snatches the key and Frank strains away from the handicapped railing to give Gee the largest amount of space he can. Just because he’s not homophobic doesn’t mean he wants to rub up against Frank.

“So you’re free, uh-”

“Frank,” he supplies when he realises what Gee’s waiting for. He checks his wrists as he stands, a job that normally Zeke takes. They’re a bit red, sweaty despite the goosebumps on the rest of his body. But no marks along the four inches the restraints were wrapped around, nothing that won’t fade.

“Free but naked,” Ratsnest point out. “Where are your clothes?”

“I dunno. Beneath the cash register, maybe?” Frank’s not sure. Normally Zeke undresses him and redresses him afterwards.

Big Hair goes to check and comes back with them. Frank takes them gratefully, more for the warmth than the modesty. They’ve already seen his skin, covering it now wouldn’t make the Victorian unfaint. He quickly pulls on his jeans, not tightening his belt at the buckle. At this moment he doesn’t feel like more straps. The backs of his sneakers are crushed from sliding them on a thousand times without untying the laces, he does it once more. The long sleeved shirt covers his tattoos, wrists, and fingers. Frank’s got a habit of wanting oversized clothes, and Zeke allows it. After an unknown time naked on linoleum clothes are a treat.

“So you disobeyed your dom, right? By getting yourself undone? Isn’t that not allowed?”

“My porn research informs me he’ll get spanked for misbehaving.”

Another day and Frank would give Otter a firm lecture about the realism of BDSM porn being second last only to dyke porn. Another day and he’d ignore it, just let it go. But today is today. “He didn’t listen to my safeword. That’s like ‘put the gun down’ not listening compared to ‘eat your broccoli’ not listening. And I don’t fucking care how he _wants_ to punish me, because I’m leaving.”

“Yeah?”

“I hate moving out of ex’s places. You got a friend to help?”

“No. I moved here to be with him.”

“Where you from?”

“Jersey.”

“Us too. Weird. So you gonna move back?”

“I guess.” It hits Frank how big of an issue this is about to be. He’s not changing his mind, but there’s a lot more to walking out of the restroom than just walking out of the restroom. He tugs on the end of his braid as he thinks. “I guess I’ll have to call my mom. I don’t have any of my own money.”

“What! That jerkoff demands it?”

Gee looks furious, like he’s about to walk out to the front and steal Zeke’s wallet or grab a fistful of cash from the til to compensate him. Frank figures he better explain before that confrontation happens. “No, I haven’t worked in a year. I help him here and he takes care of me.”

“Don’t call your mom,” Ratsnest says.

“Mikey, he can’t stay here.”

“I’m not saying stay here. I’m saying hitchhike with us. For the next two weeks we’re on tour. We’re in a band. Just come with, and once we’re closer to Jersey we’ll drop you off. You can get back without begging.”

“Technically I’m just changing the target of my begging from my mom to you.” Not that it isn’t an alluring idea. Being a roadie for a band of obviously decent guys in exchange for not having to tell his mother why he needs money to come home? It’s hard to see the flaws.

“Not really, we offered.”

“You offered,” he feels compelled to point out.

“Gerard doesn’t care. Otter doesn’t care. Ray doesn’t care,” Mikey replies, angling slightly to each of them in turn to confirm.

Gerard offers “we're kinda smelly, but you’re welcome.”

Big Hair -Ray, apparently- crosses his arms. “ _Excuse_ me? Who’s smelly? We left today and you didn’t shower. What kind of person doesn’t shower when they know they’ll be sponge bathing in public washrooms?”

Oh. So they’re that kind of band. Frank’s mental image of being in a bunk in a blinged out tourbus washes out in a wave of realism. It makes sense though. If these guys were the next U2, they wouldn’t give a shit about some random peon tied to a post. And really, he’ll probably have more in common with guys in a duct taped van than celebrities. He did duct taped van, for years.

“I can put up with smelly. You guys are fucking awesome. I’ll help you set up your shit, I used to be in a band. Let’s go.”

Just outside the restroom door Zeke’s planted a stool to sit on. He crosses his arms as Frank starts to cross the threshold. “I told you you’re staying in the stall. You know what happens if you don’t.”

Frank is so infuriated he can’t even answer in words. Half the band look like they want to do it for him, but Frank has a better response. He ducks around Zeke and as Gerard starts shouting indignantly he goes into the tiny kitchen. The meat scissors are hanging from a hook on the wall amongst other cooking tools. Frank stretches to get them down and unhooks the white plastic bit so the two spring loaded limbs push apart. He closes his eyes, pulls his braid to the side of his neck and squeezes the resisting limbs together.

The links of the braid rapidly start unravelling as he stalks back to the front. Frank slams it beside the cash register with an audible slap. “Keep it, you fucking prick.”

He doesn’t diminish his statement by demanding the house key so he can get his (Zeke’s) clothing or his (Zeke’s) books or his (Zeke’s) cd’s. Frank just storms out, the band following in his wake.

The van in the parking lot has a trailer attached. Once white, it’s now covered in stickers and graffiti. It makes Frank grin to see it. It’s got middle fingers sketched on, but no crosses or marijuana leaves, so at least he hasn’t somehow wound up hitching with a Christian rock or RnB group. He’d take it over nothing, but it probably wouldn’t be a great two weeks.

“What was that about?” Gerard makes a gesture vaguely towards his head.

“Grow your hair out was the first order he ever gave me, back in September 2000. He can eat that braid. I want to shave my entire head and shove it all up his ass.” He’s rocked a few different looks in his day, he can do aggressively bald next.

“Don’t be hasty.”

“What?”

“Not the symbolic break up part, you’re right, fuck him. But shaving it off. I’m not gay, but you look hot with hair that length. You should keep it. I mean, maybe trim the edges, it’s kinda uneven. But keep it long.”

“Ray, you are a biased man,” Mikey points out. Frank takes another look at Ray’s hair. His will never look like that, there’s no product that will give Frank curly frizz. But the length suits Ray. He’s only known the guy ten minutes and he already can’t imagine him with a normal short haircut.

“Just overnight. Give yourself a chance to think.”

He’s got kind of a point. Shaving it all off to spite Zeke isn’t that much different than growing it to please him. Either way, Frank’s still doing it for someone else, not himself.

Hand on the van door, Frank asks “anyone care where I sit?” He’s done this long enough to know that you claim your seat just like normal people in normal relationships claim their side of the bed.

They rearrange themselves, then start driving into Atlanta. Everyone is silent for all of a minute, before Ray twists under his seatbelt to look at Frank behind him. “I hope you don’t mind me asking, but I don’t get it. If you didn’t want to be tied up in the restroom, why’d you let him tie you up in the restroom?”

“Did Frank look like he could take that guy?” Gerard answers for him from the driver’s seat. Frank appreciates the effort, even though he’s wrong.

“No, it wasn’t that. He’s my dom. It’s the dynamic, that sometimes you agree to things that might not make you happy, because it’ll make them happy.”

“Yeah?”

“It’s like waiting. I can’t wait for myself, I have no patience. But for a dom, I can.”

“Is that why you got pissed off? Because you were waiting too long?”

“No,” Frank says flatly. “I got pissed off because I’m monogamous, and I didn’t want some methhead trucker thinking I was a party favour.”

“So, like, you don’t go to kink clubs.” Mikey sounds interested, for all that he’s not looking up from his retro gameboy.

“No I don’t. And even if I did, they aren’t mass orgies. A lot of states and countries you’re not even allowed to come. It breaks hygiene standards.”

“Huh.”

“So what else do you like?”

“Seriously? You seriously want me to list off my kinks?”

“If you tell us yours, I’ll tell you mine?” Beside Frank, Otter shakes his head and corrects himself. “Or like, Mikey’s. His’ll be more interesting, Mikey used to be the deviant in the van.” Ray throws a half crushed can at Otter. “What the fuck?”

Continuing to scowl, Ray says “don’t call him a deviant, dumbass. You want someone to call you a deviant because you’d rather eat out a girl than fuck her?”

“That’s not deviant.”

“Why? Because more people like pussy than whips? That’s-”

“If you’d let me finish!”

They look like they’re really arguing, like any second now Ray is going to dive over the seat and strangle Otter. Frank’s very soul protests at the idea of causing a fissure in a band over something as easy as his kinks. If he can talk about it online, he can talk about it in a van with verging on drunk people.

“So yeah. Waiting. Not just orgasm denial, although that’s part of it. But the whole lead up. Like, back before Zeke was a huge douche, this one time he made out with me every half hour for a whole day without once sticking a hand down my jeans. Or hell, even just talking about it. He’d tell me he’d fuck me after midnight and I’d have the whole day to imagine it.”

“So like the whole ‘I see you shiver with antici dot dot dot pation’ thing?”

“Yeah. I like sharp pain stuff too. Like, pinching and play piercing, not flogging.” Frank shrugs. “I dunno. I mean, do you want a jerk off fantasy?”

“Gerard likes to hold people down.”

“Fuck you!”

Mikey offers out of brotherly loyalty, “Ray likes facials. You’d think he’d have sympathy the way his hair is. But he totally doesn’t.”

As the conversation moves off of him specifically, Frank grins and settles in. He can do this. He knows how to get shit on stage, he knows how to talk shit with other guys, and he knows how to avoid thinking about the future. Fuck being home in two weeks, right now he’s on his way to some venue in Atlanta, and that’s enough.

***

The venue is midsized, Frank notes when he actually has a chance to wander around out front after all the gear is inside. Bigger than anywhere Pencey Prep ever played. It’s not just a basement, or a bar with an even smaller capacity than the average suburban basement. It’s a real club. There are actual designated dancing areas and drinking areas, drawn out in the differences in flooring.

A small part of Frank wonders if they could have made it this big eventually, if he’d have stayed. Most of him doesn’t believe it. He wouldn’t have deserted a successful band just for love. That Pencey was disintegrating was just as much of an impetus as the stark realisation that people that you didn’t even know hated you so much they wished you were dead, and were actively trying to kill you, so you might as well enjoy life until then.

To be honest, the venue looks too big for this band. Frank doesn’t wish it to be true. He wouldn’t wish an empty dance floor on anyone. Well, maybe a few people, the same people he wishes would be buried in spider laden coffins, or forced to take intro to Spanish. But not these guys. Gerard saved him, hell, they all had a part in it. For that alone they deserve good lives. Beyond goodwill as a concept, everyone in the band seems like good people, people he could actually be friends with. They’ve made him laugh more than once, Mikey the most of them. Once they got settled into the back room and Otter pulled out a case of beer seemingly out of nowhere, he gave him a can. Gerard shared a cigarette.

But they don’t seem like the kind of guys that have much stage presence. They don’t even seem to want to play. The longer they sit in the back room the drunker they all get, and a few times the other three have taken a gulp in unison when the fourth mentions the oncoming show. Frank can understand pre-show jitters, but it’s supposed to be a combination of dread and excitement, not dread and apathy.

Finally he can’t take it anymore. He stands, muttering as he leaves “I’m gonna see if I still have a bank account.”

It was primarily an excuse to get out of the club, but once he sees an gas station down the street he heads towards it. It’ll have an ATM of some brand. Even if it’s not his own he should still be able to use it, he’ll just have to pay a fee. Assuming Frank’s nearly empty account hasn’t gotten closed for inactivity. His wallet has a client card, that much is true. Which is about all it holds. A few years ago he would have had cash, change, a Rutgers student card, a library card, probably a few dollars left on a gift certificate. As Zeke’s sub, the man bought everything he might need. Or at least everything Zeke thought he wanted, and deserved. The wallet only stayed in his pocket in case Zeke took him out and he needed ID.

Not having used his bank card for a year, it takes a moment of concentration to think about what his password might be. Luckily he’s always done what the website FAQs tell people not to; use the same one or two phrases for all his accounts. Frank’s second password works. He’s got about a thousand dollars, which is more than he thought he’d have. A lot more. The only thing he can think is that his mom got worried and transferred him money some time in the last year. He hasn’t talked to her since he left. She didn’t approve of him moving states away to be with a boyfriend, and when she hadn’t answered when he’d asked if a girlfriend would have made it acceptable, Frank had pretty much decided to make a clean break.

He thinks for a second before withdrawing two fifties. A fifty buys a lot of gas, and fledgling bands need gas money more than they need nearly anything else. He can supplement their income a few times until they’re back in Jersey. It’s only fair. The other bill he’ll use for shit he’ll need in the next two weeks, a second pair of socks and underwear, toothpaste, a book to read. Further down the block is a strip mall, he should be able to get necessities there.

Before he knows it it’s nearly seven, which is the time Gerard said they’re on. Out of loyalty Frank goes back to the club. He hasn’t had time to borrow a merch cd and listen, though he did help them haul in their boxes and display the merch. The title was interesting; I Brought You My Bullets, You Brought Me Your Love. The cover was interesting too. At first it just looked like purple and yellow run through a few filters in Photoshop, but the longer Frank looked at the purple section the more the grainy flecks looked like faces. The initial moment of _oh shit, religion_ panic at the track called Our Lady of Sorrows is tempered with another track titled Vampires Will Never Hurt You. Frank’s pretty sure Christians are against stories of rising from the dead, except for Jesus. Besides, Otter talks way too much about sex to be religious.

Judging by the type of people that are milling around, it’s going to be his type of band. Over half of the women have their hair tied back, and no one is wearing the poseurific metal stud jewellery that hurts in the pit. And the pit is gearing up already, people already jostling for the middle, with a wide berth around its edges for those that just want to listen without sweat and bruises.

They look different when they come on stage. Otter’s hard to see, the plight of all drummers always. But Mikey, who’s been talking with his hands since Frank’s known him, locks into place like a set of cogs. Frank can nearly hear the ka-chink of his knees. And Gerard is no longer the indignant man with a cause, or the backstage drunk. He’s a fury when they start a song called Honey This Mirror Isn’t Big Enough For The Two Of Us. Mikey stands firmly in place and Ray is headbanging with the occasional step forwards or backwards, but Gerard is shaking, four limbed flailing like he’s a Pentacostal parishioner speaking in tongues. Frank can’t really blame him, the backbeat of this song commands it. The entire crowd feels it too, already, only ten seconds in and people are shoving each other.

The guitarwork lasts about forty seconds, then Gerard’s shouting more than singing that the pills he’s taking counteract the booze he’s drinking, and Frank has a brief moment to wonder if that’s _true_ , he didn’t actually see any pills, and then he’s swept up and he doesn’t care. Doesn’t even really tune in until the chords change to plucking and Gerard’s saying don’t. care. how. much, like each word is its own sentence. And as soon as he says we’re not working out and Ray repeats it a bit later, Frank can’t help that the words rip out of his throat. It’s like Zeke is in front of him, and regardless of the words Gerard is half screaming, he just keeps bellowing ‘we’re not working out’, and they fit the music perfectly. Or at least the pain does, and that’s the point.

The next song is Drowning Lessons, and it’s just as good, and so is Best Day Ever after that. Frank pushes for the center of the pit, and so does everyone else, and anyone that doesn’t doesn’t belong here, in Frank’s opinion. If this music doesn’t make them want to shove the entire world, them don’t belong here. He wants to drop to his knees and blame others, he wants to fall onto his back and let other people hit him, he wants hump the air and touch everyone on stage. And everyone on stage is feeling it as much as the crowd is. He mentally takes back anything he thought about My Chemical Romance not having stage presence, apologises to the band for what is obviously slander. Ray’s going to break a tendon in his neck for how hard he’s banging, and Mikey’s so intense it’s like staring into a black hole. This is the third incarnation of Gerard in as many hours and Frank’s not sure which is his favourite, but he knows that he wants to suck this one off. He’s so fucking hard, but doesn’t even reach down to adjust. The music is more important than his dick.

He wants to listen to the cd now. The dichotomy of how a song sounds live compared to how it sounds recorded is generally fascinating. He wants to hear what this all sounds like when it’s the perfection of the hundredth take, when it’s exactly what they intended. He wants to know if they still provoke the same gut reaction. Somehow he thinks it will.

***

Touring with My Chem is different in a few ways than Pencey was.

For one, they smoke less pot but drink more alcohol. A lot more. Frank isn’t even close to straight edge, being a violent sanctimonious prick has never been his idea of fun. But Gerard and Otter are drunk pretty much constantly, Mikey and Ray not far behind. It seems like a little much, sometimes. Luckily it doesn’t really affect their playing. Although Frank can’t help but wonder how much _better_ they could sound sober.

For another, Gerard wasn’t kidding. They seem to smell worse by the hour. Although that could just be that he hasn’t been around van-stink for a while. It’s possible that Pencey Prep actually did reek this badly.

Another difference, an awkward one, is that Shaun and Hambone and the rest of his buddies never turned him on. The same can’t be said for My Chem. In less than forty eight hours Frank’s quietly head over heels. Not over Ray or Mikey, who would make more sense. They at least seem to have the calm needed to control a scene. Instead he wants Gerard. From what Frank’s seen, all Otter meant by Gerard liking to hold people down is that everyone’s gotten pinned by random drunken hugs at least once.

Frank’s not entirely full of self loathing about it. It’s actually kind of logical. Leaving the situation he did, and walking into the one he’s in now, it’s practically mandatory to have an inappropriate crush. Imprinting on heroes. Frank’s sure rescued victims have gotten crushes on firefighters or cops before. It’s just awkward because they get to walk away from their rescuers, pine from afar aside from maybe visiting the station once to say thank you. Frank’s trapped in a moving vehicle with Gerard for the next two weeks.

Which is one of the things that isn’t different at all. My Chem or Pencey, either way there’s a complete lack of privacy. Not that they don’t try ignoring each other, by means of iPods and hoodies with hoods up, and on one occasion, a back seat blanket fort. But so far Frank hasn’t been out of sight of at least one of them since the washroom.

It’s near impossible to get a chance to jerk off. Frank’s best opportunity is while My Chem is on stage, but he doesn’t want it then. He’s only seen them perform twice. Throwing away watching them turn into something so _other_ isn’t a sacrifice he’s prepared to make yet.

When he finally does get the chance- a supportive fan has offered two guest rooms and a couch that they don’t think for a second about turning down- Frank doesn’t waste it. He’s got the couch, otherwise known as all the space and time in the world. Instead of just putting a hand on his dick he does it the way he likes it. Jerking off can be a solo-scene, if he does it the right way. He strokes himself slowly, letting the skin of his palm touch every millimeter of his cock. It’s not as good as when Zeke would do it; play with his dick for an hour of prime time television without letting him come close to coming.

He slips into a fantasy. Zeke used to like playing with predicament bondage. In his mind Gerard would like the same. Frank’s kneeling, legs warm and comfortable on fluffy carpet. His arms are held out straight behind him, not shaking yet, though he knows from experience they will be soon. His wrists are tied with a purple rope that’s strung through a wide eye screw in the ceiling.

The other end of the rope falls down against the length of his spine. It’s firmly knotted to the anal hook inside him. Every time his arms try to sink, the hook moves inside him, stretching him deeper. The ball on the end is as wide as the trailer hitch ball on a truck, the same steely grey. It doesn’t matter that he couldn’t take it in real life, he can fantasize what he wants.

Gerard’s watching from across the room. Frank tries to keep his arms up for him, but he’s struggling. His arms are trembling, body not liking the position even though his brain is more than happy to comply. He’s been waiting so long, cock so hard. It feels like Gerard will only walk over when Frank’s arms are against his back and the hook is so deep inside him that it’ll never come out and he’ll just be stuck kneeling for Gerard forever.

Or maybe Gerard straps him to a table, thick three inch straps of leather spaced every few inches down Frank’s tattooed arms. Gorgeous double strapped ankle binders go halfway up his calves, not attached to anything, just smooth and curled around him. Gerard sterilizes his back, liquid cool against his skin. Once it’s safe -or as safe as it can be- he slowly starts curling rings into him. The heat of it makes Frank come between his stomach and the table, just like every other time.

After, Gerard strings a ribbon through the rings. Red maybe, or black. Frank can’t see his back, and the only mirror is in the bathroom. The cuffs are unbuckled and Gerard feeds him sugar and potassium. Each movement Frank makes causes the surface piercings to drag and pull. He can only keep them in so long before they migrate, but he’ll never forget the feeling.

Or maybe Gerard puts a leash on him, and drags him onto stage tomorrow night. He ties the end to the microphone stand and leaves Frank to wait. He quakes around the stage, intruding on Mikey and Ray, never gracing Frank with as much as a touch. But it’s okay, because Frank knows he’s his. It’s more than okay, being forced to kneel, hard and waiting, an entire audience looking at him.

Frank comes, burying his face in the brown suede of the sectional. There’s no clock in the room, not even the glowing light of an old VCR. He has no idea how long he’s been touching himself. Probably not long. He’s got no one to please anymore.

***

Sometimes Frank wishes he was the same person, but in a different era. It comes from reading so much; he can’t help but place himself in the situations he reads about. Most fade until a month or two after reading you can’t remember more than the general synopsis. Not every book touches your soul, and no avid reader could afford that. But some books stick. The stories that draw Frank in the most are set in very clear eras; the grunge scene, or Nazi Germany, or feudal England. He can’t help but imagine what it would be like to live in very specific bubbles of time.

His kinky side wants nothing more than to be his age in San Fransisco, in the seventies. From what he’s read the gay scene and the kink scene were practically the same, slings and fisting in every direction. Back then if someone wore leather or a collar it meant something. Now every teenager wears a studded belt or a choker. It’s harder to find those that are serious about the scene, or even realise that wearing a D ring collar represents something.

On the other hand, in this day and age Frank’s less likely to get beaten to death if he flirts with the wrong guy. That’s important, considering he’s not sure where he’d go to find a kink opportunity in Flint Michigan. He doesn’t have time to attend a munch. They’ll only be in the city for a day.

Once again Frank bails on the motivational preshow drinking. The backstage room is more crowded than normal, this venue is playing a revue of three or four metal influenced bands. Exploded Artery is already playing, no doubt that’s why the guys think he’s leaving. Instead he stands on the fringe of the pit, barely listening to the band. He’s focused nearly entirely on scanning the mass of people for potential kinky one night stands. Or, more accurately, few hour stands. When the guys pile into the van he’ll need to be ready to leave with them. Frank’s window of opportunity is small. He doesn’t want to miss My Chem if he doesn’t have to, but he’s willing. His need for subspace is eating at him. He hasn’t gone so long without something since before he got into the cyber-scene.

Thankfully, there are a few solid possibilities. Frank awards points of potential to any male protecting girls and smaller guys in the pit. Strong, rough, and compassionate is a good combination for a one night dom.

The first guy Frank picks out has multiple piercings, and gages big enough to put a fist through. While Frank’s not insane enough to think a play piercing scene should be done in the backseat of a car, the guy might understand the sweetness of pain. He wades through the crowd until he’s beside him, and gets a hand up. A polite tap on the shoulder gets the guy’s attention the way an elbow wouldn’t.

“You wanna fuck me?” It’s easier heard over the shredding guitars than a long sentence, and the phrasing makes it obvious what he’s looking for in a way mess around or fuck wouldn’t.

The guy shrugs. “Straight!” he shouts over the song.

Frank backs off. He’s not worried. Somewhere in the crowd will be a gay or bi guy willing to slap him a few times in order to get his dick in some ass. It won’t be a true scene, but at this point he just needs some sort of release. Even if it doesn’t fit all his needs, it’s better than nothing.

The second guy is obviously gay; he’s got a rainbow stripe on his shirt. He’s got a bear lite look; medium build, a bit chubby, strawberry blond beard with a green beanie. When Frank asks he says he’s a bottom. Frank doesn’t mind topping if he’s being hurt, or if the other is clearly still in control, but that doesn’t seem like what this is going to be, so he just says a simple ‘me too’ and moves on.

As it turns out, the cliche holds true. Third time is the charm. The guy’s good looking, shorter with a round face, which is Frank’s type. He obviously has good taste, he’s wearing a My Chemical Romance shirt from the merch table. He doesn’t shout anything as he leaves the girl he’s half curled around, which leads Frank to think he doesn’t know her, he was just being a good Samaritan. Good news for him.

“You said fuck you, right?” the guy asks, following Frank out of the pit where they can talk more easily. “‘Cause I don’t-”

Frank interrupts him. “Yeah. And I’m down for rough, if you want. _I_ want it, actually.”

“Uh. Okay? Yeah, I could. Like what, though?”

Frank’s wired so that the longer it’s been since he’s had a scene, the easier he drops into subspace. It’s probably since he’s got such a big anticipation kink; the should be innocent waiting is like foreplay to him. It was nice, when he had a long distance boyfriend. It’s maybe a bit dangerous when he’s single and can go down in thirty seconds with a stranger. It makes it a little harder to negotiate.

“Like pinching, and scratching and stuff? Pinning me in place?”

“Can do.” The guy looks at him and smiles, maybe a little sarcastically, like he doesn’t think what Frank requested was all that rough. Screw the smirk though. Frank’s not about to ask for impact play just to impress someone when he doesn’t even like it.

“So, where’d you park?”

“I bused here,” the guy says apologetically.

“That’s okay,” Frank replies after only a moment of thought. “We can find somewhere with a lockable door backstage.” It’s that or the van, and it seems kind of unfair to the guys to bring a hookup back there.

The guy -Mark maybe? Frank didn’t hear it clearly, and it doesn’t matter enough to ask for clarification- leads the way. Leads Frank, his arm stretched behind his back, big hand holding both of Frank’s wrists together. It’s not a belted arm binder, but as long as he doesn’t struggle he won’t get free. He’s not interested in struggling.

They get maybe five feet into the back area before they’re stopped. Not by any staff member, but by Gerard and Ray and Mikey. Following so close Frank can’t really see over the guy’s shoulder, but he knows what the band’s shoes look like by now.

“What are you doing?”

Frank knows that’s directed at him, not the stranger. “Uh?” It’s taking him a second to think clearly. With the man’s hands clamped a little too tight and pinching skin he’s already sinking. Fortunately -or not, really really _not_ , in Frank’s opinion- the guy lets go of him and takes a few steps back.

“Sorry, he won’t be having sex with you. Please leave.”

Ray and Gerard glare, a gaze made no less potent for the alcohol swimming in it. Mikey’s got no visible response, for or against Ray’s statement. His supposed one night dom cracks under the doubled harsh looks. With a shrug in Frank’s direction, he turns and leaves the way they came.

“What the hell! What the hell was that about? Apart from cockblocking, which fuck, thanks for that.”

Apparently Mikey’s not much for confrontation. Without having said a word or moved a muscle during the exchange, he disappears into one of the rooms. Gerard and Ray don’t seem to share the shyness.

“You can’t just abuse our fans.”

“What? He was gonna abuse me! Well, not really, but still. I wasn’t gonna abuse _him_.”

“He’s a groupie, Frank. He’s followed us three venues now. He was following you to get to us.”

Ray adds, “and it was gonna work because you were taking him backstage!”

“There wasn’t enough room in a bathroom stall. Also I have kind of an aversion now, so. There was no hidden agenda!”

“You still can’t do it. Don’t fuck with anyone at the shows. It’s just wrong.”

Wrong. Motherfucking _wrong_. Like he’s got any other options at this point? Frank returns the glare with the added heat of sexual frustration and unmet desperation, then shoves past them. Otter should have a beer or two left to share. He needs it.

***

Frank is slowly going crazy. He never realised how much he needed the release of submitting, but now that he doesn’t have it it’s all he can think about. Even forms he doesn’t normally like. At this point he would totally go for objectification and act as someone’s table, or let someone spank him.

He’s gone through three cigarettes and is feeling a bit woozy from the nicotine rush when Mikey finds him outside the venue. Before he can say anything, Frank speaks. “Could you, like, tell me to do something?”

“Uh?” Mikey looks at him. There’s no accusation, just confusion, but Frank realises with a jolt that there should be. It’s not okay to get someone to unwittingly dom him.

“Sorry. Nevermind. Sorry.”

“Oh, you mean for the submission thing? Uh, go kneel by soundboard. Oh, but find somewhere to charge my phone.” Mikey fishes it out of his pocket and holds it out.

Frank shakes his head and runs in the other direction. He doesn’t know where he’s going, apart from away, but he knows away is best. It’s stupid. _He’s_ stupid. He shouldn’t be so desperate. It’s only been a week since Zeke kissed him then cuffed him to the handicapped railing. In another week he’ll be back in Jersey, able to get whatever scene he needs. Two weeks shouldn’t be long enough to make him freak out.

Mikey doesn’t chase after him. Still, it’s less than ten minutes before the bassist is standing casually beside him, again. “You should ask Gerard the same thing. He actually wants that kind of thing. Not that it disgusts me, because whatever. And the dick thing too. But wanting is way better than willing to accommodate.”

“I can’t do scenes with someone drunk.” No matter how much he likes Gerard, it’s a line he can’t cross.

“Tell him that then.”

Frank would really like it if it was that simple. But everyone knows that ultimatums don’t tend to work. “You really think it would be that easy?”

Frank can see Mikey’s face grow pensive. After a minute of silence he answers “Gerard drinks because he’s got reasons to, and because it’s fun. You get that, right?”

“Yeah,” he answers.

He’s not just agreeing to continue the conversation. Both parts are clear. Anyone over the age of fifteen or sixteen knows drinking is fun. And while he doesn’t claim to know anyone’s life story, crossing the East coast in a van leaves time to talk, and they spent enough time together that a lot of what isn’t said can be inferred. He knows they’ve all got stage fright, even though they’ve been touring a year and have followers. He knows Gerard has body image issues that seem to fade away when he’s intoxicated. He knows Gerard actually saw the towers go down. With all that, drinking makes sense.

“So if you tell him you like him, but you can’t or won’t have sex drunk, well. That would give him reasons not to drink and something fun to do sober.” Mikey shrugs. “It would just even the playing field.”

Frank doesn’t think it works like that. Any relationship that’s him versus a constant habit is probably doomed before it starts. But he’s not an asshole, so he doesn’t ask Mikey, who is so obviously on something pharmaceutical that’s not prescribed, if that solution would work for him. He wants to enjoy his last week with these guys, not start a fight with everyone’s little brother.

***

Frank pulls a beer from the box and attempts to guzzle the can down without taking a breath. Back in the day he would have been able to. His lungs used to be in shape from all the extended bong rips. Apparently chugging is _not_ like riding a bicycle. Frank can’t do much more than a third before he has to gasp for a breath.

He raises the can and goes for another third. He really needs to drink himself stupid. Like, _really_. It’s imperative, even. Ray’s been teaching him some of the songs, and he can’t get new chords out of his head. In the week of concerts he’s grown to love what My Chemical Romance creates. But he can’t help but feel like some of the rhythm is missing. It’s not like he can say that. It would be rude, bordering on offensive. If he can just drink until he can’t hear any music but theirs he’ll be much better off.

Gerard leaning against him comes as a surprise. Yes, he’s been drinking, everyone in the room has been, he’s no special snowfkake. But it shouldn’t be enough to make him lose his balance. Not this early. That’s the kind of thing that comes from extended drinking, and they’ve only just started.

He can feel Mikey staring at him. There’s no question that if he gives Mikey a desperate look he’ll somehow lure his older brother away. Mikey’s a great guy like that. According to Mikey, he tried out for Pencey Prep years ago. Frank doesn’t even remember it, never mind why they said no. It’s an interesting What If to play with, what might have happened to Pencey if Mikey had been around to be great back then.

Frank doesn’t give Mikey a desperate look. He’s only teasing himself with Gerard’s closeness, but it’s a nice kind of tease. Like smelling your mom baking a cake you can’t eat because it fucks with your allergies.

Gerard’s hands lock onto his face to pull their gazes together. For a brief moment he wonders what lecture Gerard will so earnestly give him. Yesterday Mikey got the same hands on face treatment for encouragement to move more on stage like he and Ray do.

Frank doesn’t get a lecture. Instead it’s Gerard’s lips on his. Frank’s mouth opens to ask what he’s doing, and Gerard’s part with his, and he’s got a tongue against his teeth.

Frank’s swept up in the kiss. He can’t help it. All the feelings inside him are burning like he’s trapped in an inferno of his own choosing. It’s more than just a kiss. He’s had a few dozen just-a-kisses with pretty vanilla boys, a vanilla girl or two in the mix. Pleasant enough, nothing worth pursuing to get a second. And then there was his last girlfriend, who was rough enough with jagged bitten fingernails she knew how to use. It was only after going online after they broke up that he figured out his half formed interests had names. Kissing Kathleen was fiery, kissing Zeke for the first time face to face was fiery, and this is too.

Gerard ends it the same way he began it; abruptly. He pulls away and scoots back to his side of the couch. The room is silent, a rare feat for this group of people. Frank waits a minute for Gerard to explain himself. When it becomes obvious with the first sip of vodka that explaning isn’t on his agenda, Frank stands and walks as calmly as he can to the bathroom. He doesn’t want to create more of a drama by running out and slamming the door behind him.

Once he’s in a stall he beats off furiously, in both senses of the word. Why would Gerard start something that so obviously can’t be finished? And why did he have to like it so much? Having his crush confirmed as applicable in real life doesn’t help. It makes things worse.

Coming is barely a relief. It’s really only one factor removed from the dozen thoughts-feelings-sensations clamouring at him.

***

Frank gets halfway through Cubicles before he bursts out “what does he think he’s doing?”

Ray is a pretty wise guy. He doesn’t try to make an excuse for his best friend. “He likes you. He wasn’t thinking, just doing.”

Frank scowls. “Liking me comes with baggage. Like a literal bag of ropes and spreaders and sterilized needles.”

The snort that comes out of Ray is soft, just like his voice when he replies. “Our introduction sort of proved that. It doesn’t need to be explained.”

“So then, so what if we both like each other? You think he can handle that?” With everyone else in the band so optimistic, he has to be the realist.

“I think that instead of being pissy, and acting like once an addict always an addict, you should talk to him.”

It was a lame idea yesterday from Mikey, and Frank isn’t liking it much more now. He scoffs and puts his fingers down again.

Two run-throughs of Cubicles later he puts the guitar down and stands up. If he says something maybe he’ll stop making up speeches in his head about what he might say. And when Gerard continues to match Otter shot for shot, Frank can have his miserable but honest I told you so.

It doesn’t take Frank long to find the Ways sitting together, playing a game of Magic. Frank knows they both only brought two decks, which apparently is just enough variety of gameplay for two weeks of tour. Normally Frank likes watching them. They both get highly vocal about not enough mana, or when their creature gets killed. Right now he’s on a mission.

“Mikey, I gotta talk to Gerard.”

Mikey only sticks around as long as it takes to put his hand of cards face down on the floor. Gerard makes the same move, a small pile of yellow sleeves against Mikey’s red.

“What’s going on?”

Might as well plunge in headfirst. “I’m not straight edge. I honestly couldn’t give a shit if you’re drunk constantly, as a friend. But I can’t have the kind of relationship I need with someone that’s mostly drunk.”

“I can stop drinking.”

“Really.” The skepticism comes out harsher than he meant it to.

“I didn’t drink three quarters of my life. It’s not like I need it to live.”

Frank’s pretty sure childhood shouldn’t count. And he’s also pretty sure that functional addicts need it as much as dysfunctional addicts do. On the other hand, he’s only seen Gerard on tour. Maybe there’s a fourth version of him when he’s at home that doesn’t pour alcohol down his throat like water. He doesn’t say anything, not wanting anything else mean to come out.

“Okay, so you don’t believe me. I get it. You don’t know me well enough to know I follow through.” Except Frank kind of does. He’s here, not in a restroom in Atlanta, isn’t he? “But answer me a question. Is it just the drinking? Like, if I was totally sober you’d want to kiss me?”

“I’ve wanted you to tie me up and fuck me for a week. But drunks can’t untie knots. And what if you passed out before you did? Do you know how bad my circulation could get?”

“I wouldn’t do that. It wouldn’t happen.”

“Yeah. It’s almost soundcheck. I’m gonna go for a walk.”

Frank walks for maybe twenty minutes before he passes a library. It’s not a hard decision to go in. He doesn’t particularly need to witness Gerard pregaming, unable to keep his vow for even a few hours. The place is open until ten, but Frank leaves with enough time to catch the night’s performance.

The concert goes by too quickly, like always. Frank could spend his entire life listening to My Chem play. Frank wants onstage Gerard as much as he wants the different, offstage version. This Gerard he doesn’t feel as bad about desiring. In the pit he’s just one of a hundred people that want the sexy lead singer. He throws himself around in the audience, barely noticing that his fingers are playing the chords that Ray’s are.

They’re not driving for long before Gerard leans forward in his seat and shouts “oh fuck yeah! A Walmart! Pull over.”

“What? No.”

Otter’s reply is casual, Gerard’s isn’t. “Pull over or I will kick you in the face.”

Doubtful that Gerard literally will, Frank thinks. He could maybe manage a kick to the back of the head, if he could curl around the piled merch. With the passenger side occupied, Gerard would have a rough time getting the right angle for a shot to the nose. And that’s just logistically speaking. If you throw in morals, Frank doubts that Gerard would actually let himself break anyone’s nose, let alone My Chem’s drummer with five shows left.

Otter pulls into the next entrance anyway. He can obviously hear the determination and tension Frank hears. Stopping for ten minutes is by far the lesser of two evils over Gerard being cranky the rest of the night.

Gerard and Ray go in. Ray comes out five minutes later with a two liter of Coke tucked under his arm. Gerard takes nearly half an hour. When he opens the side door his plastic bag is tightly knotted, and no amount of pestering from Mikey will get the contents explained. Not that Mikey genuinely cares. Frank’s sure he just wants to know because he doesn’t know.

Eventually, when it’s late enough that not even Iron Maiden blasting is keeping their eyes open, Otter pulls into a motel parking lot. It’s complete with a flickering neon sign that offers pay by the hour rooms. Frank’s not sure what the motel would have more of; prostitutes or bugs. On the other hand, no one will ask why they’re parked. Anyone that actually bothers to notice there are people still in the van will automatically assume they’re pimps, drug dealers, or cops. Possibly dirty cops selling drugs while waiting for their women to be ready for them.

Frank’s the last of them to fall asleep, and he really doesn’t take long. He wakes up an untold time later to Gerard shaking him. He’s not in the coveted passenger seat anymore, turned around to get a hand on Frank’s knee. He’s not even in the space between the front seats. Instead he’s got the van door open, cold December air blowing in around him. He’s lit by orange neon. “Wake up, I’m booking an hour.”

Frank follows Gerard across the parking lot. He’s not sure how much he really wants to, but if he doesn’t go it’s likely Gerard will just start talking about whatever he wants to talk about while standing outside the van. If the talking doesn’t wake up the guys the winter draft will. He’d rather have another awkward conversation than Mikey and Otter and Ray pissed at him.

The manager doesn’t blink an eye at two guys renting a room at one in the morning. Frank guesses they’re probably the tenth this week. They get their key and go to their room.

Gerard doesn’t start a conversation. Instead he takes off his shirt and goes into the bathroom, leaving the door open. Out of his plastic bag he pulls a box of bleach, a box of hair dye, and a pair of flipflops. Looking at the greasy brown coating in the shower, Frank mentally applauds Gerard’s common sense.

“I’m all for revamping your look, but any reason it needs to be right now?” Gerard could probably do this almost as easily at tomorrow’s venue, and tomorrow it wouldn’t interrupt their sleep.

“Yeah. I’m gonna be a sober redhead with a sub instead of a drunk lonely brunet.”

“Uh.” He’s not awake enough for this.

“It’s gonna be great!”

Judging by Gerard’s expression, it’ll be better than the second coming of Jesus Christ. Frank’s not sure how to respond to such bare faced enthusiasm. He really wants to believe Gerard’s words. If it was true, it _would_ be great. He’s just not sure it’ll be true.

“I didn’t drink before we went on stage. Not one beer. Ask Otter. He called me a pussy like fifteen times. I know twelve hours doesn’t prove forever, but you said you wanted me if I changed. Did you mean it?”

Frank darts forward to kiss Gerard, a chaste one before he backs up to answer. “I meant it.”

He means it. Frank might not trust Gerard to never drink again. He’s not even sure that’s necessary, Zeke partied on occasion. He does trust Gerard to keep to keep him safe. The first thing he ever did was sense something was wrong and get him to safety.

“The bleach has to sit for awhile. We should make out until your scalp burns.”

Gerard shakes his head. “You like anticipation. One more kiss now and then we wait until tomorrow.

Frank smiles. Already Gerard is doing this the right way.

***

When they pull over so Mikey can take his turn driving Frank pulls a blanket over his head so he doesn’t have to watch all the near misses. Mikey’s driving is hazardous to Frank’s emotional capacity. He feels someone sit beside him and can only imagine it’s Gerard, just deposed from the driver’s seat. He doesn’t peek out to make certain.

A few minutes later Gerard pries up the edge of the fleece and joins him under the blanket. “I’ve come to join you.”

“Do you have ulterior motives?” Frank whispers.

“I could if you want me to,” he whispers back.

Frank wants him to. Every inch of him wants Gerard to touch him. It’s only been overnight, but he _wants_. But he wants to wait too, until Gerard’s giving it instead of him taking it.

They wait for each other, exhalations heating the blanket a little, the sun doing it a little more. Finally Gerard turns his head and presses his lips against Frank’s. It’s more than it was last night. It’s so much more, every moment saying _finally finally finally_. It’s going to his head already. His body is burning, more than the blanket or the weak sunshine should call for.

Gerard undoes his seat belt and climbs over to straddle Frank’s lap. The blanket is still cocooning them, just vertical instead of horizontal. They’d be an obstacle in the rear view mirror, but Mikey doesn’t check his mirrors anyway. Frank feels brilliant, trapped in the fleece and under his boyfriend’s -his dom’s- weight. It’s loose bondage, makeshift but no less fantastic for it.

He bites Frank’s lip then sits up a bit so he’s on his knees instead of resting against Frank’s chest. Gerard’s pushes both hands under the hem of his shirt and moves them slowly up. First his fingertips are on the lowest part of his belly just above his belt, then the undersides of his knuckles, then the heels of his palms. Gerard’s hands are sweaty, as wet and warm as Frank feels, like the inferno inside him is burning Gerard too. They travel slowly up, pulling the front side of Frank’s shirt with them, the back still pinned between the seat and his back. His thumbs twitch over his nipples and Frank bucks up enough that Gerard needs to throw a hand out to balance himself.

As they start to sweat Gerard’s hair smears against his forehead. Frank can’t really see colour through the filtered light, can only see the stain it leaves against his skin. He wants to lick the dye off, or pull on Gerard’s poorly painted hair, or kiss Gerard again and this time never stop. He stays as still as he can instead, arms folded and tucked between the small of his back and the blanket softened upholstery. None of that is his to decide.

“Could you guys not? We can _hear_ you, you know.”

Ray answers Otter before they think to, suddenly startled into remembering they’re not alone. “Give ‘em a break. In four days we’ll be back in Jersey, and you never have to listen to it again.”

“Ray Toro, you are a champion for love!” Gerard shouts happily. Frank doesn’t say anything, not quite at that point of normalcy yet.

Gerard pulls away after one last kiss, tossing the blanket off the both of them. He settles back into his seat and puts his seat belt back on. Most people would call it cockteasing. Frank would call it perfection. He’s hard, needing, and Gerard decides when something happens about that. What other word is there?

***

Otter’s friends pick him up after their last show, and help him cart away his drums. They’re big, beefy guys like he is. They all have the look of second string quarterbacks, the guys that are full of team pride but didn’t get much exercise. Whatever. They’re strong enough to carry Otter’s kit, which is enough for Frank. He’s not good at hauling shit that big.

Ray’s parents and brothers take him home. According to his taller brother -Frank didn’t catch the name, was just impressed with his 6’5 frame- they’ve got an extended family dinner waiting. Ray protests that it’ll be nearly eleven, and the cousins and Grandpa will be asleep, but Frank can tell he’s happy about the fuss. Ray’s a family kind of guy.

Frank just watches as Gerard and Mikey make a deal that he’ll take Mikey’s gear if Mikey stays away for a bit. He knows Mikey’s doing it a little for him, so they can finally do something with their clothes off. Of course, it’s not entirely altruistic. There are about ten women eyeing Mikey up. Both the Ways are probably equally sexually pent up, and this is just a way to make sure both parties win.

Their house is unique, from what Frank sees of it. Not much, admittedly. They go in through the back door and sneak down the stairs.

“I’m not ashamed of you or anything. It’s just my parents will want to get to know you, not just say hello. My mom will judge you by your cigarette brand, and my dad will ask what books you’ve read lately. There’s time for all of that tomorrow, right?” Gerard looks at him anxiously.

“Parents planning our future can wait until after our first time, yeah.” It’s not like Frank plans on taking Gerard to his mom any time soon. Hell, he’s not even sure when he’s going home.

The anxious look doesn’t fade from Gerard’s face as they close the door to his bedroom. Someone that doesn’t know Gerard might think it’s sudden shame at seeing his dorky bedroom through a stranger’s eyes that makes Gerard frown. Frank knows that Gerard knows Frank thinks nerds are awesome. Except for people that like Spiderman, because he is a whiny bastard. Tobey Maguire did not do the character any favours. But all of Gerard’s action figures and comics and memorabilia is pretty cool, in that dorky way.

“What’s up?” he asks, tossing himself onto Gerard’s bed.

“I don’t own any toys. I mean, I have a vibrator and a flesh tube. But nothing like bondage stuff.”

“Who says you’re getting past first base?” Frank jokes.

Unfortunately for the both of them, the remark is true. Every time Frank’s hand moves to Gerard’s zipper his parents make noise upstairs. It can’t be purposeful cockblocking, unless they have surveillance cameras, but it’s still preventing everything Frank wants to do. He doesn’t mind an audience in a no-touching monogamous scene, but that doesn’t include parents.

“I can’t do this here,” he admits finally.

“Yeah. It’s kinda distracting.” Gerard doesn’t seem too distracted, he’s still hard and panting against Frank’s neck. But he’s willing to get up and drive to the nearest hotel. A hotel-hotel, not like where they had their second kiss.

“Kinda funny we get a hotel after we get home from touring. Like we could have done all of this then, if we were just gonna do it in a hotel.”

Frank shakes his head. “Nah. I did the touring thing. Mikey and Ray and Otter would have wanted in. Five guys in one hotel room is no better than five guys in a van. Worse, really, in some ways. In a hotel people feel like they have the right to take their pants off.”

He was being honest. He doesn’t even see what he set up until he walks into it with Gerard saying “ _you_ have the right to take your pants off.”

“Is that a suggestion, or an order?”

“Frank, about that-”

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, no. Not when they’re so close to having something! Gerard hasn’t had internet access yet, he shouldn’t be scared off by Googling things he doesn’t understand yet. “What?”

“You said you wanted me to tie you up and fuck you. But I don’t know anything about knots. I don’t even know anything about rope. When I think rope I think the wrist thick yellow rope that hung from the ceiling that the asshole gym teachers made people climb. I assume that’s not the right rope. Also, where do you buy it?”

“I like it, and you’ll learn it” if this lasts, if this works, if he stays sober, please god let this last “but I like other stuff too. And I bet there’s stuff that you like that you wouldn’t consider kinky that some people would.”

When he actually gets internet access, he should print off a list. Not so much for negotiation purposes, just so Gerard can see how much there is to experience.

“Otter was right about the holding thing. Not that we ever had sex for him to know. He’s very very straight.”

“Yeah, I’ve heard him talk about pussy. So see? There’s a thing. Or have you ever accidentally dug your nails in? Because that I really like. I’m a man about sharp pain, not dull.”

“Oooh. Oh! I have like forty million clothes pegs at home to dry art. They’ve got really good springs they should pinch.”

Frank grins. He’s had good experiences with DIY clamps.

“But you said you liked bondage and stuff.”

“For now, you know something easy that really works? Only take my clothes off halfway. Jeans don’t stretch, so I’ll only be able to open my legs as far as you slide them down.”

“Could we maybe try the sharp pains stuff first? Once I research I’ll know what I’m doing, and then it’ll be easier to do the bondage stuff.”

It’s not like Frank is expecting expert Shibari. But he can understand how Gerard might need some time. “Yeah. That’s fine. Just don’t freak out when you see shit. You know how the internet is.”

“So, take off your pants.” This time his voice is firm, exactly the way Frank wants to hear it. “And when they’re off, fold them and your shirt and put them on the table.”

His skin is cold from the blasting air conditioning, but he does as he’s told.

“Now kneel between the beds. I’ll be back in-. Kneel.”

The ugly pink carpet is surprisingly soft against his bare legs. Gerard didn’t mention a particular position, so he lets himself fold more, so his ass is resting on his heels. After a moment he folds his arms behind his back and does his best to clasp his elbows. His chin drops to his collarbone, so all he can see is the small expanse of pink and the night stand. If his gaze was higher he’d see the digital clock slowly tick its way through minutes. He doesn’t want to see. Gerard’s intention was that he not know how long Gerard was gone, even if it wasn’t stated in the clearest way, and that’s what Frank intends to submit to.

At some point, he hears footsteps. He doesn’t raise his head. There’s a soft shuffle, then Gerard kneels behind him. None of their skin is touching, but he can feel the heat of Gerard radiating. If Gerard was to breath deeply, Frank would be able to feel his stomach expand against his back.

The first scratch comes as a surprise. It’s only one finger, starting at his hairline and scraping down to where his neck meets his shoulders. Frank tilts his head to look at the left bed, to give more room. Gerard ignores him, the next scratch down the right side of his lower back. It’s longer than the few inches of his neck, with more pressure applied. The third is against his right shoulder, the fourth just above the crack of his ass. With each painful nail, Frank finds himself coming a little more apart, sticking a little more together. It’s impossible to describe to someone not feeling it.

Gerard feels it. Frank’s certain he does. His breath is regulated, but he’s a singer, he knows how to regulate his breathing in any circumstance. Frank knows he feels it because he grabs his asscheek and digs in like it’s a handful of sand. Frank shudders as five crescents of fire shoot directly across his groin to his dick, and Gerard reaches around to pinch his nipple with the same brutal fingernails.

He doesn’t hesitate, just curls both arms around him like it’s a hug, then immediately throws away the gentle movement when he lines each finger up with a rib and pulls sideways. It’s the first time Frank can see what he’s doing, and it makes it all the better.

“I want to make you come. Tell me to stop if that’s not what this is about for you.”

Frank doesn’t say a word. Later they’ll have to talk about setting boundaries of a scene before it’s started, but right now Gerard wants to make him come, so that’s what Frank wants to happen.

He knows how to make it happen. Gerard waits to hear the protest, and when there’s none he starts to jerk him off. Every third stroke he loosens his grip so he can scrape his thumb against the head of Frank’s cock. It’s only when he’s coming that he unfolds, Gerard anticipating the throw back of his head an instant before he arches and shoots all over the drawer of the nightstand.

Gerard grabs him by the hips and pulls them up. Frank’s too close to the furniture to fully go on hands and knees, but Gerard’s got him at enough of an angle that it’s easy for him to press his cock in the crack of his ass. With an arm curved around him to hold him where Gerard wants, it doesn’t take long for Gerard to come. Evidently he was just as turned on scratching as Frank was being scratched. A good sign for the future, Frank thinks.

In the first genuinely affectionate move of the night, Gerard pulls hard on the shiny quilted cover blanket until it comes half off the bed, and then wipes Frank with it.

“I love you, and that was really great. Do you want to lie down now?”

“Yeah.” It’s all he wants to say. They can analyse the scene later. For now he just wants to be in Gerard’s arms.

***

Everything seems off when Frank wakes up, eyes sticky as he blinks them open. The immediate concerns clear. He’s not tied with no circulation left. Gerard hasn’t left in a big kinky-and-or-gay freak out. There’s no one in the room attempting to rob them.

It takes a minute to hit him. The generic painting Frank fell asleep looking at was a boat last night. Now, with his eyes fully open and staring at the same wall, it’s foliage.

It’s late morning, so Frank has no problem nudging Gerard. “Wasn’t that a boat last night?”

“I don’t want to sound pretentious, but hotel room art makes me want to cry. I try not to look at it.”

Frank shrugs. He’s sure it was different, but it doesn’t matter enough to argue it. Instead he gets out of bed. To get coffee he needs to go to the lobby, and he needs to be dressed to go to the lobby. He grabs the shirt he was wearing last night, attempting in vain to shake the fold creases out. One day he’ll get used to not wearing the same shirt four days in a row. That day is not today.

He considers turning the shirt right side out for the delicate natures of the elderly and suburban moms that might be in the continental breakfast room. In the end he leaves it inside out. He likes that side better, and if anyone is offended by it, they deserve to be. Assholes in the pit or assholes in pink sweats and green plastic visors, he’ll call any and all of them out.

The words really aren’t that offensive, he thinks. Some guy was being homophobic about the band in the crowd, so he snatched a sharpie, turned his shirt inside out, and wrote Homophobia Is Gay on it. It was an easy way to get across the message that that’s bullshit, and he didn’t have to resort to punching the guy fifteen times until his nose broke. It’s not like he wrote Fags Fuck Assholes, Breeders Fuck Cunts, Why Do You Care? on it.

“Where are you going so early?” Gerard groans, eyes still tightly shut.

“Coffee. And it’s not early. It’s past ten.”

“As your dom can I order you to not get up before noon?”

Frank grins. “You can tell me not to bother you, but I doubt you can change my actual biorhythms.”

“Well hell. Now that we’re awake, might as well get good coffee.” Gerard pushes the heaps of blankets off his body. It’s a good sight. When given a real bed, Gerard sleeps in the nude.

They’re leaving Starbucks, biggest cups of coffee they can legally buy in hand when a girl accosts them. She’s about his height, with long brown hair. The top of her face is hidden behind a jester’s mask, at least until she pushes it high on her forehead to see better. “Oh my God! I was right! Holy fuck! Frerard!”

Frank’s confused by the slip of the tongue. “Did you mean me or Gerard?”

“Oh my god! Frank Iero is talking to me!” People that are as excited as she is faint. Frank’s seen it before, just never directed towards him. Maybe she was a big Pencey fan back in the day. He’d always thought they’d all hate him though, for breaking up the band.

“I’m not dreaming, right? You were kissing, right?”

“Uh, yeah?”

“Oh man. El Jay is going to shit.”

Frank still has no idea what’s going on, or why some Spanish guy would care that he was kissing his boyfriend when he was bored in line. It’s too early for mysteries, he’s only had a sip of his coffee. He tugs on Gerard’s hand and starts to pull him around the stranger. It’s _not_ too early for more kissing, somewhere that isn’t around crazy women.

After a second she runs the few steps to catch up. “Wait! I have to ask something. Em see are unofficial will kill me if I don’t. Uh. Uh. All I can think of is stupid crap, like what’s your favourite coffee mix. No, don’t answer that, that wasn’t my question. Fuck. Uh. Oh! Okay. Why does Korse hate you?”

Frank looks at Gerard. It’s clear he has no idea who that is either. She looks like she’s on the verge of mental breakdown, like if she doesn’t get an answer she’ll just collapse in the street. Not willing to cause that much drama, Frank answers blindly. “Because he’s a fuckin’ prick!”

“That’s it?”

“Some people are just fuckin’ pricks.”

“Can I get a picture with you guys?”

Still confused, he shrugs then agrees. He can’t see the harm in some person he’ll never see again having their picture. It’s better than her freaking out at them if he says no. They huddle together and she stretches her arm as far as it will go to take the picture. The image that shows on the preview picture menu pleases her, and she separates from them.

“Okay. I’ll leave you alone now. I’ll see you tonight. I don’t have a meet and greet or anything, but I’ll be there. Play some of your old stuff!”

“I’m sure we don’t play tonight,” Gerard ponders. “Ray or Mikey would have said something if we had a second Jersey show.”

“You don’t. I would remember too.” Frank had memorised the tour schedule when Ray told him, the night he started hitching with them. It had been important to figure out where his mom would be the day he got home, and what mood would result from what commitment she had just fulfilled.

“Back to the hotel, or keep walking?” Gerard asks.

“We don’t have to check out until noon. It’s not very cold, might as well keep walking.”

“Cold makes steaming coffee taste better anyway.”

They walk for a bit before Frank sees a odd line of people and wonders if a con is about to occur. Nearly all of the teens -and most of the adults- are cosplaying. From a distance he can’t see a singular often repeated symbol, he can only see the colour explosion. Whatever they’re about to experience, it looks interesting. If it’s a full week thing, maybe he and Gerard can scrape up a costume and join. Most cons sell one day passes, at least in Frank’s experience.

He’s about to point them out to Gerard, who’s focus is solely on the lighter that he can’t get to stay lit, when the cosplayers spot them. From being pointed at to being completely swarmed is maybe thirty seconds. It’s weird for a second, and then it moves way beyond weird to frightening. There so many people shouting things he can barely hear, a good chunk of them just B horror movie _screaming_. And they’re all trying to touch him and Gerard. His jacket is being ripped from trying to pull out of the grip they have on him. To make it worse, he’s losing sight of Gerard. His boyfriend is being dragged into the current of people.

Just as Frank starts to hyperventilate, a massive guy shoves his way through the swarm. He grabs both of them by an arm and deftly tugs them through the crowd. With such a swift and strong pulling, Frank has to trot to keep up. He keeps pulling until they’re at a side door, and then he takes five seconds to type in a code and shove them through it.

He doesn’t speak until they’re alone in a hallway. “What the hell guys? You know there was no barrier.”

Frank has no idea what to say, but Gerard manages an apology, to which the guy tells them to not do it again, and then leaves, irritation in his step. Gerard’s coat got left in the crowd, the only real way to get him out of a parka with both his arms being clung to. Frank’s shitty windbreaker is cheap enough that he doesn’t care that it’s torn. He just strips it off and tosses it into the corner. Maybe the insane cosplayers can find a use for it later.

Frank’s looking for a place to put the cigarette butt -technically Gerard’s, but he took the last drag that got it to filter, so it’s his problem- when he sees their doppelgangers. They’re not entirely identical. Both of them have short hair. The Gerard he’s facing is skinnier, and the Frank he’s facing has a tattoo on both sides of his neck. But there’s no question that the faces of himself and his boyfriend are on other people. Seeing them, Frank’s stunned into silence.

The other Frank is not. “Well, I guess Mikey is finally getting revenge for the portraits of him thing. Lookalikes. Except your picture is a bit dated. I cut my hair.”

Real Gerard looks at Frank, then turns to his clone. “Do you believe in parallel universes?”

Other Frank applauds. “Similar voice and pretends to likes sci-fi. Bonus points for that.”

Real Gerard turns to other Gerard. “Mikey hates refried beans bcause you convinced him they were Yorkshire Terrier poo when your cousin made you dog-sit. Elena gave you your first drag of a cigarette. You were horrified when Joe told you about Fear Factor. I’m you, I’m just not from here. I don’t know if this world has magical principles, but can you think of any reason, any way you might have pulled us into this universe?”

Other Gerard stares at him in shock. Other Frank nudges him. “Come on Gee. Don’t tell me you believe him.”

“How did he know if he’s not me?”

“Elena was a lucky guess, someone had to get you started. And Mikey told someone, I think, thanks to the Power Pup. And what fan would think you’d be pro the kind of shit they do on Fear Factor?”

Frank rolls his eyes. Of course other him is a cynic. “Fine, I’ll do it too. You think bees are badass, and for a while you thought Jamia Nestor was the love of your life.”

Other Frank snorts. “Wow man, that’s shocking!”

“That’s what I-”

“Sarcasm, man. Part of Fun Ghoul’s costume is bee related, so there’s that. And of _course_ my wife is the love of my life.”

“What!” Frank feels a little woozy. “How is that possible?”

Other Gerard looks at him. “In your world you’re not married to her?”

“Hell no. In my world we’ve been dating a week.”

Other Frank remains disbelieving. “You’re taking the Frerard angle too hard, guys.”

“Yeah! What the hell is that? Someone said it earlier!”

“You know, I almost believe you now? Any fan that cared enough to cosplay us would react to that word. A few creepers, but most by shouting fourth wall.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Gerard must hear the upset in his voice, he slings an arm around his shoulders. It’s not enough to center Frank, they’re not quite there in the relationship. It’s still nice.

“Maybe they don’t have it in your world. Or maybe you’re not big enough. You are still in a band, right? My Chemical Romance?”

“Yeah, same as you. We’re touring Bullets.”

Other Frank looks at Gerard like he just said something ridiculous. “Not that I buy this. But what year is it for you, if you actually weren’t bullshitting?”

“Two thousand two.”

“See, two thousand eleven here. So you’ve moved in time, not just across worlds. But you have Mikey at home? He didn’t travel with you?”

“No, he and Otter and Ray didn’t come with us. Or if they did, we haven’t stumbled across them yet. But I bet they’re all still in bed. Touring was sorta exhausting for the four of us. In a good way, you know what I mean. But you really wanna sleep for a while after, in a bed you can stretch out in.”

“What about Frank?”

“Well, he likes the music. Right? You do, right? Don’t lie if you don’t.”

“Shut up Gerard,” he answers easily, pressing a quick kiss to his forehead.

“But. He doesn’t play?”

“I play here?” It’s almost cruel to find that out. Still, at least in some universes he gets to.

“You should really let him play. He makes the songs so much more dynamic.”

“Frank doesn’t even want to play. He quit his last band because he didn’t like playing anymore.”

Other Frank crosses his arms. “If it was Pencey he had good reason.”

“He would have said?” Gerard doesn’t sound as confident anymore.

“How could I have said anything? Rescuing me wasn’t enough, you had to let me join your awesome band?”

Gerard doesn’t answer him. Frank didn’t really expect him to. But the silence is going to get awkward, so he needs to find something to say. Preferably something unlikely to break the universe. Other Frank is wearing a shirt with his own writing scrawled on it. Frank points and asks “what’s that?”

“My babies. Lily and Cherry. Me and Jamia have kids.”

It’s another shocker. Frank likes kids. If Mikey and his eventual girlfriend eventually have seven, and Frank’s still with Gerard and friends with Mikey then, he’ll happily spend time with all of them. But he can’t see turning his and his dom’s relationship into a relationship about providing for children for twenty years.

“Wow. That’s. Wow. I hope you and her are really happy.” It’s true, as far as it goes. It’s also true that he’s thankful it isn’t him, but that much he won’t say out loud.

Other Gerard looks at Gerard. Frank almost laughs when he ruffles his hair the same way Gerard does. Cross the universe, and Gerards everywhere are still twitchy. “Assuming the band stuff stays the same, but you don’t have a Lindsey? The fourth time you feel so stagnant and depressed you think you’ll never create again? Go to the desert in California.”

Other Gerard’s phone goes off. He pulls it out of his tight jeans and checks it. “Mikey wants you to tell him what that movie with the sewer dinosaurs is. He’s trying to argue a point.”

It sounds like an argument Frank could get into. “Should we come with, or-”

“Yeah. I’m pretty sure it’s our job to host you while you’re here. But stay here, and we’ll bring them to you first. It’ll make it funnier.”

“Mikey’s gonna _shit_.”

Frank’s not sure how long they’re going to stay here, but with Gerard standing beside him, Frank’s safe. He got used to not being in Atlanta with Zeke in a few days. So what if another universe takes a week or a month? He’ll do it with Gerard, and it’ll be okay. He leans in for a kiss for that hint of reassurance. When he pulls away their doppelgangers are gone, and the venue is empty.

“We better not fall into a parallel universe every time we kiss. That’ll get old fast.”

Frank would point out that it didn’t happen any of the other times, so this was probably some sort of lesson. It’ll be a lot more fun to say “we could test the theory?”

Gerard kisses him deeply. They stay in the back of the venue.

“Try it again? We need a large pool of data to be scientific, right?”

“We’ll do it on the way home. Right now we’re in property we’ll be accused of breaking in to. I’d like to avoid getting arrested.”

“At least until you’re a big name rock star?”

“Until _we’re_ big name rock stars.”

Frank pulls away from under Gerard’s arm so he can look him directly in the face. He looks sincere. It doesn’t mean it’s a sure thing. They’ll have to have a band meeting to see if Mikey and Ray and Otter agree. Ray’s the one with the most to lose, his status as The Guitarist will be gone. Otter’s not super comfortable with their relationship. And Mikey might want revenge for that time Frank doesn’t even remember when they wouldn’t let him into Pencey. But there’s a chance, now. It’s enough to make Frank smile.


End file.
